Month: July 2014

I love my boobs. I really do. My bra size is somewhere around 42G at this point, mainly because I’ve gained weight recently (but we won’t get into that right now). But even before that, I was always a top heavy girl. And I embraced it – there are a lot of things that look really great when you’ve got the cleavage to fill it out, and Christina Hendricks is my girl crush and style icon who knows how to rock her figure on the red carpet. Damn, girl.

But as those “Busty Girl Problems” comics have pointed out, there are some pitfalls to living the ample bosom life. From struggling to find a bra that will hold you up and in without resembling something your grandmother would wear, to battling where to put the seat belt, to strategically trying to position yourself when you lay face down for a massage, there are certain things that present more of a challenge.

By the time the end of the day rolls around, my bra feels like an underwire prison and all I want is to let my magnificent melons be free.

I am constantly taking of my bra as I’m walking from room to room in the condo – you can find bras in the living room, hooked on the handle of the bathroom door, or on the floor next to the bed, flung aggressively off my body as soon as possible. For someone who needs as much support as I do, I literally almost never wear a bra at home.

But I have a warning for my fellow busty beauties… beware going braless in the bathroom. I was in the bathroom getting ready for work a couple of months ago, and I wasn’t quite ready to strap in for the day. I mean, 4 hooks in the back and more underwire than I know what to do with? I’ll put that shit off as long as possible, thankyouverymuch.

I was running late (as usual) and scrambling to get out of the house at a reasonable hour without resembling a sea creature. I threw on some makeup, brushed my teeth and then caught a glimpse of my hair. My unwashed, dark roots showing, scraggly ass hair. I didn’t have time to wash it, but I grabbed the dry shampoo and plugged in the curling iron. Can you see where this is going?

While the curling iron was heating up, I threw on my pants and shoes and headed back into the bathroom where my bra was hanging. OK, I had a choice here: throw a couple curls into my hair and then put on my bra, or the other way around? I went curls first. Wrong decision. Terrible decision. Awful decision. Never make that decision ladies. Although before I tell you exactly what happened, I want to point out that I did make it through the actual curling of my hair unscathed – I’m a wizard with my curling iron at this point. No, the trouble came when I was finishing up, and had already turned off the curling iron and just needed to put on some mascara. I did the unthinkable. I LEANED OVER. I FUCKING LEANED OVER WITHOUT A BRA ON.

When you have natural boobs that are that size, they are PENDULOUS. And they hang lower than you think they do ladies. I barely had time to register the pain of the burn when my boob made contact with the still-hot curling iron. It happened so fast, and it’s all a little fuzzy at this point. I won’t go into details (because it’s disgusting) but keep in mind how delicate the skin on breasts is. It went the way you think it did.

I hit the ground without realizing I’d even dropped, but there I was, writhing on the bathroom floor in pain and clutching my naked chest. I don’t even want to know what it looked like, but I have to imagine it was not one of my finer moments. I don’t even remember if Gil was still home at that point or if he was pounding on the door, but all I can say is that I’m thankful the door was closed. We have seen each other in some compromising positions over the course of living together, but me flopping around like a wounded manatee clutching my boob and screaming, “WHY? OH GOD, WHY?” in some twisted naked version of that Nancy Kerrigan scene seems like something that can wait until we are a few more years in.

And what do you do about a quarter sized burn on your milky white breast? I couldn’t go to work without a bra – it would be indecent. All I could do was keep it clean, and cover that shit with a leopard print Band-Aid until it healed.

And now I bear the battle scars my friends. A mark on my otherwise wondrous tatas that will forever remind me of the dangers of having big boobs in the bathroom. A mark to remind me that when I’m running late, the best solution is a messy topknot or a baseball hat. A mark to remind me to always keep the counters clear, and to NEVER EVER lean over without a bra strapped tightly around my chest. A mark to prove the struggle is real, people.

Like this:

I like to think of myself as an independent woman. An “I can do it myself!” kind of person. And as my mother has thoughtfully reminded me over the years, that was both the best and the worst part about having me as a daughter.

I can’t even imagine what it would be like to raise me. Or to raise anyone for that matter. But it must be a struggle to want to help your kid and make sure they have the best, but to know you need to let them make mistakes on their own and figure shit out if they are going to be a productive and functioning adult someday.

Under no circumstances do I think it would be easy to strike that balance, but I can’t imagine where I’d be if my mom hadn’t figured out how to do it. Being raised to be able to do things myself, my way, made me who I am. It allowed me to develop my own sense of style and creativity early in life, it allowed me to make stupid mistakes in college and learn from them (mostly), it allowed me to excel in my career, it allowed me to move to New York, try a new job, try a new city, buy a condo, quit my job, start over, and make new mistakes, all while trusting I would land on my feet. I am also lucky enough to have a support system that will catch me when I fall, which certainly made all of those things easier. But the foundation was there, the message ingrained from the start: I can do anything.

I can change a light-bulb, check my oil, open my own damn pickle jar and change my own freaking tire. Well, that last one is a lie. I guess I COULD, but I don’t really care to. But you better believe I can make my own money to pay for AAA, who will send someone out to change it.

I was recently reading some of the submissions on “Women Against Feminism” and it got me thinking. Firstly, that there is a lot of confusion about what feminism actually is, and secondly that very few people seem to distinguish the difference between accepting help (which is healthy and awesome and sometimes actually a very hard thing to do) and feeling dependent on another person to do things for us.

Sometimes I worry about what happens when women are under the misguided impression that we need someone else (specifically a husband or boyfriend) to do things for us. Sure, it’s nice to have Gil open the pickle jar if it’s really stuck, and I definitely leave the handiwork around the condo for him to do, but if he disappeared one day, I’d survive. I’d run my pickle jar under hot water. I’d hire a handyman.

These examples seem innocuous enough, but if women aren’t raised to really believe they can do things themselves, it’s easy to go down the rabbit hole, and allow these little things to add up. And then one day, quietly and without notice, all the little things feel like the big things and now all of a sudden you can’t imagine how you would get through life alone. That’s the mindset that scares the crap out of me, because I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it lead to bad relationships, abusive situations, and toxic marriages that lasted far longer than they should have. A relationship should be about a lot of things, but dependence isn’t one of them.

So I hope there are a lot of mothers out there like mine… mothers and parents who will teach their daughters that they can do anything. Parents who will allow their daughters to fail. To fall down, and get back up again. Mothers who embrace the mess, embrace the challenge, and allow their daughters to do it themselves. As hard as it might be, and as much as you want to intervene to help, I implore you, the mothers of young girls out there: Let her do it herself. Encourage her to try, to make mistakes and to try again. I can’t begin to imagine how hard it is to raise kids these days, and I don’t pretend to know the challenges you’ll face. I don’t plan on having kids, so I’ll never know. But I DO know what it was like to grow up in that environment, where my stubbornness and determination to dress myself, decorate my own birthday cake and assert my independence in general helped shape me into the woman I am today.

So moms, I know biting your tongue and letting your daughter mess things up will drive you crazy. I know you’ll want to pull out your hair. I know this because my mom tells me how crazy she went watching me do things she knew she could “fix” or make better. But she also realized she had to walk the walk – if she was going to raise me with the message I could do anything, she couldn’t say no when I wanted to decorate the cake for my 5th birthday party. She was a smart cookie though – she made two cakes: one for me to decorate and then one that was actually presentable for party guests. And to her credit, she served both of them.

And when I wanted to paint my own face when I dressed as Superwoman (who else?) for Halloween when I was 3, she had to bite her tongue and just let me go. I wanted to do it myself. I always wanted to do it myself. And if my parents hadn’t let me do the little things myself, I might not have even tried when the stakes were higher.

It might not seem like much, but all those times moms say “No,” or “Let me help you with that,” or “I’ll just fix that for you,” they might be sending a message to their daughters that they don’t really intend at all. But those million little moments add up to a much bigger sense of self. So say yes. Let her do it her way. Help her build a sense of self that allows her to have faith in her own abilities and instincts. One that will allow her to move out of state to chase that scholarship, to join a traveling sports team and be out on the road, one that will give her the confidence to march her self-sufficient butt into her boss’s office and negotiate a raise. Let her do things herself and give her the courage to walk out of that dead-end job and chase her dreams, or the strength to escape that abusive relationship.

It’s a hard, scary job to raise an independent daughter. And it’s one I don’t plan on signing up for. But I’m so glad my mom did. And I’m so impressed with all the moms out there who are doing it, and finding that balance every day.

So thank you Mom, for letting me do things myself. And for making second birthday cakes, and not redoing my face-paint when I was 3, and for letting me walk to your car in the parking lot from Kindergarten so I could feel independent. The world needs more moms like you.

Like this:

I think an infomercial just proved I’m an old lady at heart, and that I should really be named Ruth, or Maude. Tonight, while trying to ignore the most boring science show Gil is now obsessed with, my attention was ripped from my Instagram cruising by THE MATTRESS WEDGE.

Now, don’t be fooled. At first I assumed it was a piece of sex furniture too (no judgement if that’s where your mind went, and don’t lie… it totally did). But then I realized it was 9:00 PM and those types of things shouldn’t really be airing until closer to the 3:00 AM mark.

No, this mattress wedge solves a problem you didn’t even know you had. Well, you did know but you didn’t realize how big a problem it was until you WATCHED THIS INFOMERCIAL. It’s literally a long skinny wedge that you lay across the top of your mattress to prevent your pillows from falling in the dreaded “gap” between the wall or headboard and the bed.

This is real life people. I complain about this all the time. I don’t have a headboard, and we just bought a new bed with a special frame (it’s MOVABLE and it vibrates – more on that in a minute) so our mattress just rests against the wall right now. I know, go ahead. Judge me. I deserve it. It is SO “I’m still in my early 20’s in the big bad city trying to make it work” and not “I’m 30 and have a respectable job and even though I’m still not a grown-up, I have matching bedroom furniture that didn’t come from IKEA so it looks like I have my shit together.”

ANYWAY, this thing is now something I have to own. Not only will it prevent my pillows from tumbling into the depths of despair that is the wall gap, it also has a pocket for a remote control (or apparently a tiny stuffed animal if you are a child). I can’t say for certain whether I would use that pocket for a remote or a Diet Coke, but either way, it’s pretty awesome. I’m not sure how I’ve been living without a cup holder for my bed for 30 years.

Oh! I almost forgot, I promised I would get back to it. The remote pocket would actually be particularly useful because we just bought a REMOTE CONTROLLED BED. No joke. I completely got talked into a frame that cost more than the mattress. The head and the feet can raise up on this thing, and the whole freaking base has a vibrate setting for “gentle massage.” I know, as a salesperson I should be immune to these up-selling tactics, but I’m a walking mark. And as much as I made fun of it in the store for being an “old person hospital bed” it actually rocks. And every time we turn on the massage setting, I pretend our bed is coin-operated and heart-shaped and it makes me happy in my heart.

And now I’ll have a place to put my remote control and Diet Coke while keeping my pillows safe! I think I just had a tiny orgasm. No wait, that was just the mattress.

Like this:

As anyone who has been in a long-term relationship knows, your sex life ebbs and flows. Not necessarily dramatically, but sometimes there is more consistency than others. I mean, it’s all relative: for some people that means it goes from once a week to once every couple weeks and for others it means it goes from 3 times a day to once a day.

Life happens – whether it’s kids, or opposite work schedules, or stress. Sometimes we’re just tired. Sometimes we need to make more of an effort than others. I personally feel that sex is an incredibly important part of a relationship and it should never feel like a chore. And as a woman, I want to be sexy for my partner – that really makes me feel good, so it’s a win-win situation. I want him to want to rip whatever I’m wearing right off of me. And I have recognized that sometimes if I’m not feeling great about my body or if I’ve had a really stressful work week, I’m less likely to make the extra effort.

And the other day it really hit me that I haven’t been making as much of an effort lately. Case in point: I was making dinner and while it was cooking on the stove, I walked out of the bedroom with no pants on and said, “Hey babe, wanna do it while dinner is cooking? We have about 15 minutes.”

OK, while he definitely didn’t say no to that, I’m not winning any romance points. He even commented from the table, “Wow. Really? C’mon babe, ROMANCE ME.” And ladies, he’s right, we should definitely be romancing our guys as much as we expect them to romance us. And for them, it doesn’t mean sending roses to their office or buying them chocolates. It’s sex. They want and need sex.

So the other night as we were lying in bed together, in an attempt to get my sex goddess on, I had a conversation that took a sharp left turn, and reminded me that humor is actually one of the hottest things you can bring to bed.

Me: Hey babe, would you like it if I bought something sexy to wear for you?

Him: Of course! I would really like that.

Me: Oh good. I was thinking sexy lingerie. Or maybe even a costume.

Him: (after a pause and a slightly confused look on his face): A costume? You mean like Batman?

OH. MY. GOD. This is what happens when you fall in love with someone whose first love was comic books.

Me: (screeching) NOOOOOOO!!! Oh my god, what is wrong with you?? I meant like a naughty schoolgirl or something!!!

Him: (now enjoying my dramatic reaction and the potential for humor) What about Spiderman? Or Superman? Or FRANKENSTEIN!!

Me: (shaking my head in defeat): I should have just suggested Princess Leia, you big nerd.

Him: No, that’s stupid and overplayed, don’t do that.

Me: OK, well maybe I’ll just dress up as a sexy Ewok then. Make one with boob cut-outs. Would you like that??

Him: You know, I bet they make those. The internet has everything. I bet there is even Ewok porn.

Me: Seriously? You’re so ridiculous, I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.

And 10 seconds later, thanks to smart phones and dirty lonely guys who live in basements and have a knack for graphic art, we discovered that Ewok porn does, in fact, exist. And I was reminded how lucky I am to be with someone I can laugh with all the time. There’s pretty much nothing sexier than that.

Like this:

Me + Diet Coke = Everlasting Love. Seriously… it’s an addiction. I’m not going to post the whole email here, but the other day I sent Gil a note just to tell him how much I love him. This line in particular shows personal growth for me. I don’t know that this declaration was ever true in any of my other relationships.

“I love you so much that if I had to choose between ever having a Diet Coke EVER AGAIN IN THE HISTORY OF MY LIFE and you, I would always totally choose you.”